


Run Wild

by commacomma



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Finn escapes without Poe, Finn joins Zorii's gang, M/M, Minor Violence, Poe Dameron's shifty past, Poe and Zorii have some issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, The Spice Runners of Kijimi, i write about blood uh a lot, mentions of drug abuse, no cheating but poe/zorii is a thing for a lil while, spice runners au, they meet on Kijimi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:13:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24215728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commacomma/pseuds/commacomma
Summary: A hiss came from behind the fruit display, and suddenly the man’s other hand came into view rearing a blaster -- some kind that FN-2187 had never seen before, and was not thrilled to be introduced to. “This is the last time you try screwing us, Dameron, you said you were alone!”By the time FN-2187 had the good sense to flee, the tall woman had a weapon of her own trained on him, much smaller, but unquestionably as deadly. He held his hands up, breath rattling once again. Did no one know how to greet a stranger on this damn planet?“I am alone!” The voice behind the fruit display protested. FN-2187 could see a pair of hands shoot up above the sign reading Close Enough to Fresh! “I dunno who that is!”
Relationships: Poe Dameron/Finn, Poe Dameron/Zorii Bliss (briefly)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14





	1. I

It was not the crash onto Jakku that was going to kill FN-2187. Nor the scrap dealer that pulled him from the wreckage, and neither the journey off of the first planet he had ever stepped on. For this, he had believed himself lucky. Though he was scraped to hell on all sides, near starving, possibly riddled with infection, he was free. The scavenger was kind enough to spare a few bandages, though she admitted her supplies were low. He could not bring himself to ask why she was helping in the first place, he was so overwhelmed with gratitude. She told him that her name was Nev’at, and she was once a Rebel pilot. She asked him for his name, and when he hesitated, she insisted that he not tell her unless he was sure of it. Bizarre as the instruction was, it saved him the trouble of being known. 

For what became a month and a half, FN-2187 accompanied her on her cut across the stars. Many things were unspoken in this arrangement. He did not know when or why she was going to drop him off, though he was keenly aware that it was a temporary situation. He owed her so much that he would not dare offend her by asking where he was going to go. As he watched her pilot each morning, he observed that she had no real means of navigating at all; she flew only to places she had never been before. 

“I’ve been doing this a long time, a while before you were born,” she said once. “Worked my way through the core systems in my early days. Now there’s nothing left but the rim.”

“Where will you go when you’ve been to them all?” He knew it was impossible, but he wanted to believe in her. She was the first person that had ever offered him a kindness.

When she grinned at him, he could faintly imagine her younger self in that exact place staring back. She said, “I reckon I’ll go insane.”

Nev’at took full advantage of the extra set of hands aboard and taught FN-2187 all of the things he knew about living so far. Meals were three times a day, not two, and they did not consist of rations;  _ food _ , it turned out, was not inherently for survival. It was more complicated to prepare, but FN-2187 could not believe the way it tasted compared to what he had known before. When there was work, it could wait until after breakfast, according to Nev’at. He had a difficult time sleeping as long as she did. Laundry was done once a week, and his clothing came in variety from an outpost on Agamar they visited. Best clothes were reserved for business and anything else had to be durable enough for scrapping. When there was no work, Nev’at regaled him with her adventures across the galaxy and all of the wondrous things she had come to appreciate from each place. Music was FN-2187’s favorite -- they watched a playing band on every planet they landed on.

Aside from assisting her “collecting”, he did as much as he possibly could to pull his weight on her ship, the  _ Haydn _ . He admitted to her that he knew little of mechanics and could not fly for the life of him.

“I’ll say!” She cackled at him, “Not easy to bend up a TIE-Fighter the way you did, kiddo.” 

It did not occur to him until later that same evening that she recognized the type of ship she found him in. He felt even more foolish when he realized  _ of course _ a Rebel pilot would have recognized it. She never mentioned the TIE again, but he was unnerved for the remainder of their time together that she may confront him with his past. Despite his fears, she never did.

She taught him the bones of ship-maintenance, as much as he could learn in such a short time. He could replace wires and remove basic parts, had a better understanding of the controls, but was still green as far as it went for work. To compensate, she informed him, she was going to teach him the best few recipes she had collected along her many ways. 

By the time she started him in the kitchen, he was eager and treated her words as sage advice. “You can get away with being a lousy deckhand only  _ one _ way, and that’s being a damn good cook.” Her ingredients were not rations, but processed foods designed for flight. “Anyone who says pilot food is bland just doesn’t know how to make it, you hear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered, which was usually all he was capable of saying. If he had ever known his mother, he would have thought she sounded something like Nev’at.

He learned a few different ways to make each meal of the day, what he could replace and what he would be able to do without, how to cook something out of a scarce pantry. The night that he made dinner unsupervised was the night that Nev’at told him she was ready to go on by herself.

“You’re a good boy,” she told him, and he felt as young as she made him out to be, “It’s been nice to have some help around here. But there’s a reason I’m out on the stars alone, and I get a feeling that you need to be moving on, too.”

He looked into his peas as she spoke and nodded his head. He was not ready to leave the comfort of company. The rest of the galaxy could not be so inviting, nor half as generous as Nev’at. He washed the dishes after they ate and spent the rest of the evening cleaning, organizing, and fixing as much as he could into the early hours of the morning. He did not feel his debt to her had been sufficiently paid.

She came the closest to asking who exactly FN-2187 was the morning that they said goodbye, though it still was not a question. The rucksack she supplied him was only half-full with his clothes, a little bit of food, a canteen, and a small drive that she had recorded music on in her plentiful travels (this he did not notice until later, and did not have a chance to thank her for). They were parting ways on one of Kijimi’s many unloading docks when she finally brought it up.

“I’m no fool, kiddo. You’re running from something.” She declared. He respected her too much to deny it. “If I needed to know, I’d have asked you on Jakku. But I’ve been keepin’ my eye on you this long, and I’d like to send you off the same way. There’s an old pal I know that lives here, fellow by the name of Babu Frik. You tell him Nev’at sent you, and you’re looking for a job. He can find you something.”

He had practiced his farewell, not wanting to leave her with the usual unsure couple of words he tended to manage. In the moment he still had no idea what to say besides, “Thank you for helping me. For everything.”

She said nothing more to him. They shook hands and split off into the crowds in opposite directions. FN-2187 could have been stepping towards the ledge of a cliff and would have been none the wiser. The dock was pulsing with passengers, workers, pilots, mechanics, all appearing from and disappearing into the many rows of ship spanning the platform. He had been in a bustling town before, in a city, even, on Dennogra. But he had been following Nev’at all those times, as though stepping into her boot prints in the snow. He turned on his heel to look at her again, perhaps to ask for more than just a name, but she had vanished from his sight. He pushed on as a man in passing cleared his throat.

Directly beyond the gate to the port town was one road with a steady line of buildings -- restaurants, markets, what appeared to be small homes -- on either side. Much like the dock, schools of visitors were making their way down the line toward the taller structures in the distance. 

The first Stormtrooper that he saw made him duck into the nearest door in reach. FN-2187 could not have kept track of how much distance he had put between himself and Jakku, but his heart was still pounding. His fingers itched for a blaster that he no longer carried. None of the places that he and Nev’at explored were First Order colonies; he could not believe there had been none stationed along the pier. The smell of coffee was so strong in the shop that he could hardly focus. Could they have come for him? There was no way to know whether or not they had searched for his body, if they were hunting him down the very moment he stood trembling on a welcome mat. Perhaps the planet was not colonized at all and they were there to apprehend. 

“No loitering,” chimed a droid that FN-2187 had mistaken for a coat rack. Its quite literally wiry frame was skinny as a pole and six short arms were staggered in a spiral at its top. When he did not budge, it repeated itself, then added, “Make a purchase!”

“I have no money,” FN-2187 explained earnestly, “I just need--”

“No money!” It began beeping furiously. He could not understand a lick of binary, but sensed that he was not making a winning first impression. It resumed in basic. “Get out! No money! Get out!” With each word the screeching grew louder, and heads were beginning to turn in his direction. 

He tried apologizing, but could not get a word out above the droid, and left as swiftly as his feet could carry him. Entering the street once again, there was no sign of the Stormtrooper in either direction. Panic was hot in his stomach, but he had to move forward. How to move forward when he could not be sure in which direction he was heading? He swept through the river without another stop, hoping that it would lead him to a place to pause and track his steps.

The people around him became muted as they passed through the gate. Their number had dwindled the further into the strip they crossed, and it appeared that not quite so many were there to visit the city after all. FN-2187 was relieved until he saw white helmets and armor posted at either side of the entrance. He could not hold a breath or take one, he was so afraid to keep moving. There was a restrained aura that convinced him he was not the only one, a feeling that he must have imagined. With everything he had boiling inside him, he forced his eyes forward. They were not there for him, he reminded himself desperately, there was a chance of passing through unnoticed.

Rain struck as FN-2187 finally began reading the signs on the buildings he passed. A passing cloud obscured the pale afternoon light. The other people that had bottlenecked into the city alongside him forked off to their own paths and soon he wandered alone on the pavement, soaked to his bones. As he picked his way further in, more restaurants and larger businesses came into view than the street market outside the port. Many of these were named, he presumed, after people, because he could not tell what type of establishments they were by their titles alone.

He received concerned glances from the people that he passed in the street. They all seemed to have coverings to meet the weather or umbrellas to share with those they accompanied. He had nothing of the sort and quietly hoped that the things in his bag would not be completely drenched when he found a place to unpack. Dwelling on that thought, he made an abrupt turn at an intersection and vowed to himself to step inside at least one building to find direction before he reached the end of the lane. It took quite a few paces first to work up the courage. He stopped in front of a two-story building with an awning that allowed him shelter from the rain, and forced himself on a whim to step inside.

No droid waited at the door to ambush him, as had occurred in the coffee shop that he first entered. Past the outer door was another glass door to walk through, and it led FN-2187 into a grocery store with very stale lighting and, it seemed, no employees. Above the aisles of shelves, he could see a single corner with a counter for collecting money, which was vacant. He pressed further inside, misgivings thrown to the wind as he walked beneath a heater and felt the flush return to his cheeks. 

“Hello?” He called, uncertain in his tone. Perhaps he was not supposed to be in here.

Once he spoke, voices on the far side of the room recoiled, though he could not make more words from the muddle than  _ what _ and  _ who  _ and  _ shut up _ . From behind a large display of various dehydrated fruit packets came a tall woman with a heavy brow and a sour look on her face. 

“It’s a customer,” she said through gritted teeth. A man, much smaller in comparison, appeared at her side, an arm tucked behind his back. She reminded FN-2187 much of his Captain in her stature, and his back straightened habitually at the bite of her voice. “Welcome to Bunsen’s Grocery. What are you looking for?” As she spoke, her eyes flicked back toward the display. 

FN-2187 felt unsettled by their abnormal behavior, but paralyzed by instinct, he answered her question. “I’m not here to purchase anything, but I’m new to the planet, I’m looking for--”

The man snorted and waved his free arm. “Not looking to buy, then get on out. This isn’t a library, we’re very busy.” His eyes, too, were trained on the fruit display.

“Please,” FN-2187 pleaded, “If you could just-- point me some direction, maybe, or tell me who I should ask. I’m looking for Babu Frik.”

A hiss came from behind the fruit display, and suddenly the man’s other hand came into view rearing a blaster -- some kind that FN-2187 had never seen before, and was not thrilled to be introduced to. “This is the last time you try screwing us, Dameron, you said you were  _ alone _ !”

By the time FN-2187 had the good sense to flee, the tall woman had a weapon of her own trained on him, much smaller, but unquestionably as deadly. He held his hands up, breath rattling once again. Did no one know how to greet a stranger on this damn planet? 

“I  _ am _ alone!” The voice behind the fruit display protested. FN-2187 could see a pair of hands shoot up above the sign reading  _ Close Enough to Fresh! _ “I dunno who that is!”

“Really, now?” The woman’s hold on her weapon was steady. She leaned over and, with her other hand, plucked a different man out from behind the cardboard display by his ear. “How can you be so sure if you haven’t looked?” There was a cold glimmer of amusement in her eyes. Her companion’s chunky blaster was now pressed into their hostage’s side.

She did not release her claw on his ear, and FN-2187 got a very sideways look at him as a result. One eyebrow was streaming blood, forcing the eye below closed, and the other peered at him with a mix of confusion and fear. His bottom lip was split and a fresh bruise was surfacing the cheekbone turned up at the ceiling. The collar of his shirt was stained red.

“I’m telling you, I don’t know him,” the bloodied man insisted. “Why would I let you two beat me into jam if I had backup?”

It became clear to FN-2187 that he had found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was meddling in affairs that did not concern him and appeared to be fatal. He had the urge to look behind him at the glass door, but knew better than to show any sign that he was about to bolt.

“Do you know this guy?” She demanded, motioning with her gun to the man in her grasp.

“No, ma’am,” FN-2187 answered, shaking his head with fervor. “I really don’t, I was--”

“Then  _ why _ are you looking for Babu Frik?” She spat. “I don’t like liars. And it looks to me I’ve got two right in my reach. Dani, put him out.”

When he opened his mouth to protest, it was already too late. The man, who he figured to be Dani, lifted his blaster from the battered one’s side and pointed it directly at FN-2187 before squeezing the trigger. He dropped like a brick through a glass floor and fell unconscious in an instant.


	2. II

Poe was made to drag the feet of his unconscious “accomplice” through the store while Dani lifted his arms. Maya held her blaster on him and escorted them up a set of stairs, into the second story. The stranger’s head was certain to have bumped on a few steps along the way, which was a small comfort to Poe for his now-ruined plans. He was going to return to the den empty-handed for the second night in a row, at this rate, and all thanks to whoever it was that had waltzed in, asked for Babu, and earned him a death sentence.

Of  _ course _ he wasn’t going to play it fair to begin with. But Maya turned out a little more sore about their last encounter than he anticipated, and Dani was never the forgiving sort. Maybe it was his fault for relying on the good grace of smugglers to take the moral high ground. Instead of leaving unfinished matters in the past, they took a direct approach and beat him accordingly. But he was going to talk his way out of it. He could find his way out of any hole he dug as long as he could get a word in.

Now he was more strapped for options than he would care to be. Tied to a chair in his business rivals’ attic, back to back with a guy possibly bleeding out under his coat, with no possible way to signal Zorii and bring in his  _ real _ backup, he could count his chances at survival on one hand. He was going to get an earful if he managed a way out of this hot water.

“We’ll deal with them once his buddy wakes up,” Maya instructed. “We have to mop up all that blood down by the dried fruits. That’s our most popular display, you know.” Poe opened his mouth to reason with her one last time, but she slammed the door on him before he could edge another sentence in.

It was looking bleak, to say the least. He could not be sure how long he sat, mulling his escape in silence, eyes fixed on the only window in the room. It was a thin strip of glass panel running close to the ceiling, barred from the outside. If Zorii was in position, she might see a blast of light from her watch across the street. But she had pulled more than her typical share of wild cards on him in the last couple of months. His next pitiful few ideas came to prove that she was his safest bet nonetheless. The only trouble was that his wrists were bound behind him, and he was sat facing the window. It was far enough that he might survive a blast from that distance, but there was no way he could make that shot himself. There was one way to do it that would, at least, diminish his chances of blasting himself to pieces in the process.

“Oh, please don’t be dead,” he pleaded, craning his neck in an attempt to look behind him. From the corner of his eye, he could see the stranger slumped over in the chair behind him. As he spoke, he felt a strain on the rope tying them together. He sat up straight and pulled himself forward, trying to jar him awake. “Come on!” He urged quietly. “Wake up, wake up, wake up.”

The boards beneath them creaked as he moved, and he stopped in order not to alert the two downstairs to his escape. It took a few more tries rousing him before Poe finally received a response.

“Stars on high, quiet down,” the man groaned, “My head’s split in two.”

“Are you shot?” Poe asked, wasting no time. He had bled enough to keep Maya and Dani busy for a little while, but he wasn’t going to bank on a very tedious clean-up. It was hardly their first time with a mess like that on their floor. “Stay with me. Are you bleeding?”

“No,” came the answer, bitten with indignance, “Some kind of stunner. I’m not shot. You?”

“Not yet,” He sighed, “I’m about to be, thanks to you. I was handling it before you had to come looking for directions.”

“Handling it?” Poe heard him scoff. “You didn’t look like you were handling it.”

“Well, I wasn’t tied up in the attic until you came through,” He snapped. “Do you want to listen up or what? I’m gonna do you a solid and get us both out of here.”

His silence stretched on until he finally said, impatiently, “I’m listening.”

Poe explained as quickly and as quietly as he could. “I’ve got a friend holed up in the bakery across the street. She’s watching for trouble. I just need to get a signal to her, and she’ll come busting skulls in no time.”

“Uh-huh. What kind of business do you and your friend have here?”

He groaned. Was he really getting the third-degree from a guy equally as tied-to-a-chair as him? He wanted to argue, but bit his tongue for the sake of organizing in time. He had a feeling Maya was not going to pull punches once she returned upstairs.

“Unimportant,” he said flatly. “What’s your name?”

Through the floor, the creaking of a door could be heard, and the echo of voices. Poe tried as hard as he could to decipher the noise. It did not sound as though they were climbing the stairs yet. 

Perhaps in panic, the man blurted, “FN-2187.” 

“ _ What _ ? You’re kidding me.”

“Would I be kidding you right now?”

Well, Poe would give him that much. There was no reason to stress the details with such limited time. But he had a feeling that he would be met with reluctance if he divulged his plan fully, an impression gleaned from the suspicious tone he was interrogated in. Babu never did attract the most reliable company, now that he came to think on it.

“That’s a mouthful. F-N, huh? I’ll call you Finn. I’m Poe.” Poe did not leave him room to object, and decided quickly to change his attitude. “Finn, buddy, I need you to trust me. Maya thinks you’re with me, so you’re a goner by association, if you don’t do what I say. I need you to give me your hand.”

Poe thanked his lucky stars that he had been able to keep the explosive hidden between his palms without setting it off, more so that Dani didn’t notice it as he fastened his wrists together. 

“Okay, I’m trying. You’re a bit far,” Finn told him. 

“Lean back, try making some wiggle-room in this rope.” Poe strained hard as he could, pressing against the form behind him. It was difficult without the use of his legs to leverage himself. “Little further, come on.”

He squeezed the metal into one hand, shifting his shoulder back as far as it could go. Only his thumb was holding the pin in place now. Level as he tried to hold himself, his heart raced involuntarily. He felt a cold set of fingers catch him by the knuckle.

“Got you!” Finn exclaimed, and just for a moment, he sounded relieved. Poe inhaled sharply, rolled the lump out of his hand, and lifted the pin in a quick motion. “Uh-- what is this?”

“It’s a phosphorus explosive,” Poe said simply. “Shut your eyes and throw it, quick.”

“ _ What _ !”

“Throw it past me, that’s the signal!” He could hear the counter winding down. “Now!”

His own eyes were clamped shut in preparation, despite his back being turned toward the blast. He held his breath as he waited for the reaction. He heard the sound of the metal bead hitting the floor behind him, but still could not help jolting with a yelp as it exploded in blue flame out of his sight. His eyelids were scarcely enough to prevent his vision from whiting out. The force of the blast rippled throughout the room and sent the chairs they were strapped to tumbling over onto the ground. And then the ground gave away entirely.

Finn and Poe both screamed as they fell through the floor. The break was hardly clean, and there was no telling what all had happened, because Poe could not bring himself to open his eyes. He felt more than a few things shatter -- chair, rope, wrist, arm -- and was too shocked to move. 

“Some plan,” Finn was mumbling furiously, “Some  _ kriffing _ plan, you moon brain,” and something that sounded like, “If you aren’t dead yet...” 

Poe’s ears were ringing, and when he finally blinked the dust from his eyes, he saw that Finn was, in fact, screaming at him. And they were both alive. He wondered why they weren’t being shot until he realized that they had fallen right into the hollow middle of the cardboard fruit display. White plaster dust coated both of their heads, their clothes, fresh wounds, and all. One side of Finn’s face was scraped and dripping, the rest of him was too blurry to decide on. The cord binding them around the middle had been broken in the crash, but the ropes around his wrists were wrenched tighter than before. They were stacked in a heap between wobbling shelves of dehydrated fruit cubes. 

Poe bit back the splintering pain and turned off of his shoulder to take a better look in front of him. Maya and Dani were nowhere to be seen, but a familiar set of boots came trampling through the produce knocked onto the ground. Two more sets followed, running past the first pair that stopped in front of the wreckage, and Poe knew that he was rescued. Zorii was on her mark.

He was fading in and out of consciousness for the next crucial few moments, and of only one thing was he absolutely certain: he owed Finn bigtime for his hit-or-miss of an escape plan. He could admit in deafened hindsight that throwing a grenade in a locked room was not his finest solution. As Vibbo and Vicii kicked the display cutouts down, Poe zoned in enough to catch Zorii untying his legs from the remains of the chair.

“Get Finn,” he was trying to say. He could not hear himself, and though he began to yell, it made no difference. “You have to get Finn, too!”

Her mouth was moving, hands flying even faster. He tried elbowing her instinctively when she grabbed him by his wounded arm, the pain was so sharp. She was strong enough that she could pin him with one hand to clear the rubble from around him. It was unusual to see her with her mask down, her dark eyes in plain view. There were a few red spots in his vision, but he could make her out clearly as she held his face. He probably needed to do more than stare up at her, but she looked more beautiful than ever, and he was dizzy beyond belief. Maybe he just needed to close his eyes another second.

He could only just hear her. _I’ve got you now, sit up. Walk it off._ Her voice sounded as though it was wading through water to reach him. _Sit up, you aren’t done yet._ _Get up, Poe! Maya, if you touch that gun, I swear…_


End file.
